ascended, no ray of light fell across the dark.
"He stayed not for torch," cried Della Scala. "Bring up the men,
Ligozzi!"
As he spoke, a figure forced itself out of the dark, a wild figure, and
yet Tomaso's; his white face was smeared with blood which trickled from
a great gash on his forehead, his doublet was rent and torn, and he
reeled as if hurt and spent.
"O Mother of God!" muttered Mastino. "Mother of God!"
Tomaso sank at his feet with a bitter cry.
"All is over!" he cried. "We are betrayed. Oh, would I were dead before
I had to tell thee!"
"Betrayed?" echoed Della Scala. All the life was struck out of him, he
steadied himself against the cavern wall and looked at the boy dully.
"Betrayed?"
"Betrayed? By whom?" cried Ligozzi. "Ah, thou art hurt!"
"Nothing, nothing. I am in time--Visconti--his men guard the other
entrance--with difficulty I escaped to warn thee," gasped Tomaso.
"Who betrayed us?" demanded his father, his face dark with passion.
"The girl," said Tomaso, bitterly; "the girl who loved Visconti."
"And Heaven favors her love and not mine!" The cry was wrung from
Mastino. "We are betrayed for a girl's love of Visconti. And my wife
waits for me!" He laughed wildly, and drew a faded rose from the folds
of his sash, flinging it on to the ground.
"Look, Ligozzi, a sign from Heaven--a sign I thought had been fulfilled.
But a girl prayed for Visconti, doubtless, and her prayers are heard.
Isotta must perish, but Visconti is saved! To mock, Heaven sends me a
sign."
He ground the rose to powder beneath his heel, and Ligozzi quailed at
the wild anguish of his face.
"I should have known," he cried. "I should have known. I called on God
and this is His answer. I will fight Visconti alone!"
He turned from the cavern to the open, and stepped out among the waiting
officers.
"Back to camp!" he cried wildly. "We are betrayed again, by a woman who
loves Visconti! The Duke of Milan is fortunate; who would do the like
for me?" And he flung himself down upon the bank, and sank to the
ground.
"Leave us," whispered Ligozzi. "Leave us, all is over for to-night, the
Prince and I will follow."
"He is much moved," returned one of the officers.
"All his hopes were on it," said Ligozzi bitterly. "His wife, his God."
In disappointed groups the men moved off, to spread the evil news.
It was now fully dark, but not so dark that the three left by the cave
could not see each other in the faint starlight.
Mastino called to Tomaso. His voice was hoarse and strained.
"Tell me all, boy; tell how it happened."
"My lord," faltered Tomaso, "it is too painful."
"Painful!" And Della Scala laughed harshly. "I am well used to that;
tell me how it happened."
He had risen, and standing in the shadow of the trees, only the outline
of his great figure was visible to Tomaso and Ligozzi, standing a few
paces before him.
"There is not much to tell," said the boy uneasily; he was sick with
disappointment and the pain of his wound and leaned heavily against his
father.
"Agnolo opened the door to me--as had been arranged; he told me, with a
wild face, his daughter was gone. Visconti had carried her off, he
vowed. He was half-crazed, and ah, my lord, even as he spoke, the
courtyard filled with soldiers, Visconti's soldiers. The girl had fled
to the palace, and told the Duke all! We were betrayed!
"They laughed to see me there; vowed I should die a merry death, trusted
you would follow and let them give you a warm welcome. Agnolo they
mocked with talk of pardon, for his daughter's sake, his daughter the
Duchess to be, whom Visconti had proclaimed to all his court, if he
would tell them a little more of what you meant to do! But Vistarnini
met them with defiance.
"'At least Visconti shall not claim us both!' he cried, and then they
laughed and killed him. _That_ was the Duke's word, they said, not
pardon."
Tomaso paused.
"And his daughter lives to be Duchess of Milan!" said Della Scala. "It
is the will of Heaven!" He laughed again, harshly.
"I escaped while they argued over the poor painter's body, and they
dared not follow, being in terror of an ambush. If it had not been for
saving thee, I would I might have died!" And he sank his head upon his
father's shoulder with heart-wrung sobs.
"Take him to the camp," said Mastino, rising. "How can I comfort him or
thee, wanting it so much myself?" And he turned away through the trees.
The air was perfumed and soft, it fanned the heavy hair back from his
face and rustled the flowers around his feet.
He walked fast, in a fury of hate. It came to him to rush into Milan,
and die upon the soldiers' spears, if he might only get his hands upon
Visconti. "I will challenge him to fight, to single combat," he thought
madly. Then his mood changed, he stopped and felt for the locket at his
neck.
"Isotta! Oh, my dear, my dear!" and his voice was full of tears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
IN CLOTH OF GOLD
Graziosa Vistarnini, the savior of Milan, and the Duke's betrothed, was
lodged with regal state in the magnificent new tower that stood in the
grounds of the Visconti palace. Visconti could be liberal to a fault
where it suited his vanity or his purpose, and Graziosa's new residence
was decorated with a lavishness that made the French stare.
For not only had she saved Milan, but she had done it solely for love of
him, and it gratified Visconti's pride as much as it pleased his
ambition. Save for this girl he had been now even as had been Della
Scala, and Milan humbled as Verona. She had been the means of his once
more outwitting a foe; she had assured his safety and the safety of his
city; and Visconti's proud gratitude showed in the state and splendor
with which he surrounded his chosen wife.
This glorious summer morning she was seated on the side terrace that
surrounded the tower, a terrace of black marble and alabaster, the
delicate balustrade smothered in lemon and myrtle trees and clusters of
white roses.
Graziosa was in the midst of a brilliant company; the best-born dames in
Italy were among her women, and more knights and pages composed her
train than had ever waited on Visconti's sister.
Beneath them the garden, reached by a shallow flight of steps, spread in
perfect loveliness to the palace, above whose pink brick walls and
rugged gray fortifications floated the banner of the Viper.
The air was golden with the brightness of the sun, there was not a
cloud in the purple sky, and Graziosa's heart was singing in pure
happiness.
She rose from her chair impulsively, and walked to the edge of the
terrace, leaning over the balustrade, the ladies behind her.
"'Tis sad to think there should be fighting on such a day as this," said
one, handing Graziosa her fan. "God grant it may soon be peace!"
"God grant it!" repeated the painter's daughter fervently.
"They say the Veronese cannot hold out much longer," said another. "This
very morn there was news. Bassano has fallen----"
Graziosa picked a cluster of roses and buried her face in them.
"How beautiful they are!" she said. "See, they have little hearts all
gold, never showing till they die; a pretty fancy, is it not?" And she
stroked them tenderly.
"Bassano has fallen?" she repeated idly.
"Yes, and 'tis said they cannot fail in getting Reggio."
"Then my lord's arms are everywhere victorious!" cried Graziosa with
sparkling eyes.
"As ever, lady," was the answer.
"And we can hope for peace," continued Graziosa softly.
"And when peace is proclaimed you will be Duchess--almost Queen--of
Lombardy, Gian Visconti's wife!"
There was a note of envy in the speaker's voice at such a splendid
destiny, but Graziosa did not notice it. She even shuddered faintly at
Visconti's name; it had been associated with awe and terror too long for
her to be able to easily shake the fear away.
"Meanwhile, the sun is shining hot, lady," said a third attendant. "Will
you not come into the shelter?"
Graziosa moved away; the white roses at her bosom were not more pure
than her face. Two pages lifted her rich train, and as she crossed the
terrace a third came and spoke to her on bended knee.
"My Lord Giannotto waits your pleasure, lady."
"Tell him I am here," and the color rose in Graziosa's face at so much
honor.
She turned to the steps where Giannotto waited, cap in hand, and
advanced toward him.
"Lady," said the secretary, bowing low, "my lord sent me to say he will
wait on you himself; and meanwhile if you have any commands----"
Graziosa interrupted him.
"Indeed, my lord is too good; what commands should I have?--tell him so,
with my deepest thanks, sir."
Giannotto looked at her curiously, with a mixture of pity and wonder.
"He comes himself, lady, to hear your thanks, and learn your will."
And he stepped aside, joining the group that had been gathered about
Graziosa.
Gian Visconti was coming through the garden, a grave-looking man by his
side, a white hound at his heels, and two boys following, one bearing a
wooden case, the other carrying a roll of drawings.
Visconti was talking to his companion; he was in the best of humors, at
the height of triumph and success, his enemies well under his heel, his
ambitions on the point of being gratified.
Graziosa came to the head of the steps, and Visconti took his gold cap
off and waved it, coming up them gayly.
She stood silent in the glory of the sunshine and held out her hands,
and he kissed them, and looked at her and laughed pleasantly.
"Now art thou happy, _donna mia_?" he said. "Hast thou all that thou
couldst wish?"
"More than I ever dreamed of, my lord," she answered softly. "I did not
know the world could be so beautiful--or so happy."
"'Tis but a small return, Graziosa, my beloved, for what thou hast done
for me," returned Visconti. "And I will make it more--this is but an
earnest of the future. Visconti's wife shall live in such splendor that
men shall not see her for its dazzle."
"What am I, that thou shouldst give me so much joy!" cried Graziosa,
with swimming eyes.
Visconti smiled.
"Thou art thyself--it is enough!"
He turned to his companion, who stood respectfully at some little
distance.
"Come hither, Messer Gambera. Here is a lady who shall often pray within
your church--my betrothed, who saved us Milan."
Messer Gambera bowed low, and kissed the hem of her gown.
Visconti watched his homage with pleased pride, and turned again to
Graziosa.
"Now I have somewhat to show thee. This is the architect of my new
church, which shall be the wonder of Italy. Follow me, messer." And he
led the way into the entrance-hall.
It was low and wide, the walls covered with frescoes, the floor red
sandstone, the windows opening on to the terrace.
In the middle stood a gilt stucco table, and to this Visconti drew a
chair and bade Graziosa seat herself.
"Here is what I will make of Milan, sweet, when the war is ended!" he
said, as the architect unrolled and arranged his drawings.
"And will that be soon?" she asked, looking up at him.
"Aye, I hope so," laughed the Duke. "Mastino della Scala grows weaker
day by day--I have Bassano, and shall have Reggio. He has lost his wits
as well as his fortresses, for he bids me to a single combat: all to
stand or fall by our own swords. He has his answer, and I have his wife.
Now, look at these, Graziosa----" and he took the drawings from the
architect and spread them on the table.
"My new church," he said. "The plans, my well-beloved."
And he looked eagerly at Graziosa.
"Indeed, my lord, I do not understand them--it is no church, surely?"
And she raised a sweet, bewildered face.
"'Tis the plan of one. Messer Gambera will explain it," and he motioned
eagerly to the architect. "Here, messer, this is the porch?" And he laid
his finger on the drawing, absorbed in contemplation.
"Yes, my lord."
"Set on three steps?"
"'Tis so, my lord."
"I do not care for that, messer, and I will have more carving--would you
not, Graziosa?"
"You must not ask me; indeed I do not know," she smiled.
Visconti's face for an instant darkened. "You must learn," he said. "My
duchess must know architecture. Take away the plans, messer; I will look
at them alone."
"Perchance the lady might care for the model, my lord?" returned the
architect. He spoke bad Italian, and was shaking with nervousness.
"Bring the model," replied Visconti, and the page placed the box upon
the table.
Messer Gambera touched a spring and it flew apart, showing an exquisite
little model of white marble, some twelve inches high.
"Oh! it is beautiful!" said Graziosa, and Visconti looked at her with
sparkling eyes.
"You think so? Yes, it will be beautiful--the church of all Lombardy."
"It will be like this, of marble?" she asked, breathless.
"Every inch--from the porch to the pinnacles, and the floor shall be
precious mosaic, and the altars crystal and serpentine, jasper and
amethyst; men shall spend their lives in carving one pillar, and the
price of cities shall pay for the gold that shall be lavished on it. Not
in our life will this be done, nor in the lives of those that reign
after us--or even they that follow, but finished it shall be, and one of
the wonders of the world--and I shall be remembered as he who planned
it--to the glory of God and the house of Visconti!"
He turned with shining eyes to the architect, who gazed on him with
admiration, with a face that reflected the speaker's own fervor.
"Yes, mine will be the glory, though I shall never see the pinnacles
kiss the sky, or hear the mass beneath that marble roof--mine will be
the glory--even though I am not buried there, it will be my monument to
all eternity!"
Graziosa gazed at him in silence: she could not understand. Gian glanced
down at her with a smile.
"Would it not be a worthy tomb, even for a king, Graziosa?"
"For an emperor--but we will not talk of tombs, my lord," she answered,
"but of pleasant things, and--and--of something that I have to ask you."
"What?" smiled Visconti.
The pages had gathered up the drawings, and the architect had removed
his precious model and withdrawn.
They were alone, and Graziosa rose and looked at Visconti a little
timidly.
"I--I mean--there will be peace soon--you think, my lord?"
"I think so--but peace or war, it shall not touch thee, Graziosa."
"Indeed, I do not fear it--but----"
She hesitated a moment, and glanced anxiously at Visconti's smiling
face.
"Prince Mastino's wife--my lord----"
"What of her?" asked Gian, lightly. "How does she trouble thee?"
"I fear she is in sad woe," said Graziosa, encouraged by his tone. "She
will return to Della Scala when the war is ended?"
Visconti laughed.
"The war will not be ended till she does, methinks; yet be comforted,
Graziosa; before our wedding day she shall be in Della Scala's camp--and
the war over: now think of it no more."
"Indeed I am satisfied; and my father, my lord?"
"Now, can I help it an he will not come to the palace? My word on it, he
is safe; think no more of that, Graziosa. My word on it, he is safe! Now
are you content?"
"My dear, dear lord, I am content: I will trouble you no more with
questions. I am content to leave my father's safety in your
hands--content."
She laid her arms about his neck, and Visconti kissed the roses on the
breast that crushed them against his golden doublet, and then her
upturned face.
Through the open window came the distant sound of singing; some one
singing in French, and then a woman's laugh. Graziosa drew herself away,
and Visconti's face darkened.
"Please heaven, she will not annoy me long," he muttered.
He took Graziosa's hand in silence and stepped out on to the terrace.
Seated on the steps was d'Orleans, playing with the red ribbons of his
lute, and standing among the cluster of ladies at the foot of them was
Valentine Visconti.
She looked very brilliant and beautiful, and angry and scornful; her
laughter was bitter, and the veiled brightness of her eyes not pleasant.
The shade of Visconti's face deepened as he looked at her: compared to
his sister, Graziosa was a candle beside the sun; the contrast did not
please Gian.
D'Orleans rose and bowed low to the lady, yet in a way that was not
respectful.
"So there has been a challenge from the enemy," he lisped. "Now I shall
love to see a single meeting of brave swords again."
"Who said so?" asked Visconti. He came slowly down the steps; his manner
had quite changed, and his eyes were on his sister.
"The Lady Valentine," said the Frenchman. "She----"
"The Lady Valentine," interrupted the Duke sternly, "had best
remember--what I have often remembered to her advantage--that she is a
woman, and these affairs are none of hers."
And he gave her a glance that made her wince, as always did that glance,
for all her boldness.
Graziosa, her hand held lightly by the Duke, was following him down the
steps, her pages behind, and Visconti kept his eyes upon his sister.
There was a meaning pause, and d'Orleans grew restless in the silence
and moved away.
Valentine sent after him a look of bitter scorn, then walked slowly up
to Graziosa and saluted her humbly, though her eyes were burning
brightly.
Visconti watched them keenly, and noticed with displeasure how crushed
and silent Graziosa showed before his brilliant sister: she shrank into
herself, as if she divined the scorn Valentine concealed, and could
scarce stammer a few words of greeting in reply.
"I must back to the palace, Graziosa," said Visconti, as they reached
the garden, and his eyes roved over the crowd of attendants for
Giannotto's figure. "Remember these are all at thy commands--and, for
the present, then farewell."
To Valentine he said nothing, but turned away toward the palace with the
secretary.
Graziosa looked after him, a little pained; she had noticed he was
always different when his sister was there. Valentine had noticed it
too, and guessed the cause, and the knowledge gave a triumph to her
beauty that made it dazzling indeed.
"I fear I interrupted your discourse," she said with another curtsey.
"Indeed no, lady," replied Graziosa, timidly. "Will you not come within
with me from the sun?"
"Nay, that were too much of an honor," said Valentine. "Are you not my
brother's promised wife--and the savior of Milan?"
"I pray you, do not speak of it--I--I----" answered Graziosa hurriedly.
Valentine lifted her brows and opened her gray eyes wide.
"Do not speak of it? Why, 'tis a deed to be proud of--even when so well
rewarded, lady."
Graziosa flushed under the mock in her tone, and turned to one of her
ladies.
"We will go in--alone--since the Princess will not come," she said.
"Come and walk in the garden, madama," said Valentine. "At least it
seems like liberty--there will be little enough of that when you are
Duchess of Milan."
Graziosa, looking at her with frightened eyes, joined her meekly, having
not the spirit to refuse.
"Now, bid your ladies back a pace--at least Gian will allow us that,"
and Valentine motioned them away.
"What do you mean?" faltered Graziosa, with a pang of something like
envy, as she noticed the grace and dignity of Valentine's bearing, and
the superb carriage of her queenly head.
Valentine shrugged her white shoulders and laughed bitterly.
"Many things--among them this--get yourself a better tirewoman and you
will keep Visconti longer--learn a little spirit and you will keep him
longer still."
Graziosa glanced down at her dress, the richer of the two, but worn with
no such grace.
"'Tis no question of my dress, lady," she answered, with some
dignity--"nor of beauty--but of love alone."
Valentine looked at her curiously, scornfully. They were passing between
rich bushes of roses and lilies, the air was heavy with scent, and from
the ladies following came gentle laughter.
"You think he loves you?" asked Valentine.
"I know it," answered Graziosa, proudly.
Valentine smiled and looked away. The smile and glance stung Visconti's
betrothed like a whip-stroke.
"What do you mean?" she cried. "You insult me--you insult him!"
"Do you know Gian Visconti so very well?" asked his sister. "Have you
seen him torturing his prisoners with the slow torture of the
mind--worse than any rack? Have you seen him lying and betraying,
stealing and murdering?"
Graziosa looked at her wildly; she looked strangely like her brother
could look, her voice was very like his.
"You know how his father died? How his mother's heart was broken?"
"I know you never raised a hand to save them--I know I love him!" cried
Graziosa.
"Doubtless," smiled Valentine with scorn. "But does he love you? Why, he
is so stained with crime I do not care to touch his hand. Would such a
man love--you?"
"Some tales I have heard, but now I know them false," said Graziosa,
white and trembling. "And I will hear no more."
"She thinks he loves her!" murmured Valentine. "She thinks Gian Visconti
loves her!"
Graziosa was as near hate as was possible for her; her heart was too
full for a reply, she called to her ladies and turned away. But
Valentine followed, and laid her hand on her shoulder with what seemed a
loving gesture.
"Tell Gian what I have said," she whispered. "It will be an office to
suit you, traitress!" and with a smile she turned away.
Graziosa walked slowly toward her tower; somehow the garden had grown
dim, the sky was not so bright, the sun so brilliant; she was looking at
them through a veil of tears, unshed and bitter.
"The Lady Valentine is not a gay companion to-day," remarked one of her
attendants, looking at her.
"No," said Graziosa dully. Valentine's words were rankling in her heart;
all the past came before her, all the tales she had heard of Visconti,
all her father's tenderness, the old, happy time. What if it had all
been a mistake? What if Visconti still played with her and he was what
Valentine had said? The idea was too awful, she crushed it back, she
would not believe.
She thought of her father with a sudden yearning; she had always turned
to him in her little troubles, she felt uneasy about him with a sudden
wave of homesickness. "Can I forget?" she cried in her heart. "Can I
live this life and forget?"
But the next moment she calmed herself. She thought of Visconti leaning
over his cathedral, of his hand in hers, of his earnest voice--and she
had his word for her father's safety.
Smiling to herself, she mounted the steps to her gorgeous dwelling, made
splendid by Visconti's love.
"My father! We shall be happy together again yet!" And she laughed and
kissed the roses Gian had kissed, and the sun seemed bright again.
But Agnolo Vistarnini lay in the little chapel of Santa Maria Nuova,
near to the western gate, with tapers burning at his head and feet, and
five sword-thrusts through his heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
IN VISCONTI'S HANDS
Valentine Visconti was praying in the Church of San' Apollinare. It
stood some way from the Visconti palace, a magnificent building, rich
with the Duke's gifts.
That morning thanksgiving rose from every church in Milan; from the
palace to the hut, all showed some sign of rejoicing. The Duke had
ordered public processions and thanksgiving, and none dared disobey.
His Holiness Pope Boniface had deserted the falling cause of Verona;
there was nothing to be feared and little to be gained from Mastino
della Scala, the Duke of Milan had offered his aid against the
rebellious Florentines, and many bribes besides, and to-day had seen the
new league between the powerful tyrant of Lombardy and His Holiness
publicly ratified.
From Rome Visconti had nothing more to fear, Mastino nothing more to
hope.
The country around Padua was Visconti's too; Cologna, which he had
always held, the great seaport of Chioggia, Mestre and Lovigo, betrayed
by Carrara.
Bassano had fallen, and now Reggio; there was cause for thanksgiving in
Milan.
As a last triumph, Valentine had been sent to offer up prayers and gifts
for her brother's success. She was guarded on her errand, practically a
prisoner. Soldiers stood at every door of the church, and a mounted
escort waited without to conduct her back. She was on her knees before
the blazing altar, her head low over her missal, but she was not
offering thanks to heaven for Gian's victories.
She thought of Graziosa with angry hate. But for that girl, Della Scala
had been in Milan, and Count Conrad with him--and in reward for her
treachery Graziosa was to queen it over her! Visconti delighted to
flaunt her with her at every turn.